She walked slowly, her eyes fixed on the ground. She was thinking harder than she had ever thought before in the whole course of her short life. When she reached the parting of the ways which led in one direction to the sunny, pretty front entrance, and in the other to the stables, she paused again to consider.
Miss Winstead was standing in the new schoolroom window. It was a lovely room, furnished with just as much taste as Sibyl’s own bedroom. Miss Winstead put her head out, and called the child.
“Tea is ready, you had better come in. What are you doing there?”
“Is your head any better?” asked Sibyl, a ghost of a hope stealing into her voice.
“No, I am sorry to say it is much worse. I am going to my room to lie down. Nurse will give you your tea.”
Sibyl did not make any answer. Miss Winstead, supposing that she was going into the house, went to her own room. She locked her door, lay down on her bed, and applied aromatic vinegar to her forehead.
Sibyl turned in the direction of the stables.
“It don’t matter about my tea,” she said to herself. “Nursie will think I am with Miss Winstead, and Miss Winstead will think I am with nurse; it’s all right. I wonder if Ben would ride mother’s horse with me; but the first thing is to get the apples.”
The thought of what she was about to do, and how she would coax Ben, the stable boy, to ride with her cheered her a little.